


there is a light that never goes out

by robpatFF



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robpatFF/pseuds/robpatFF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The door slides open and Harry doesn’t move, just looks up and tries to trace the contours of Nick’s face that don’t quite match up to what Harry remembers. He’s thinner maybe, tired. He’s got his track bottoms on and a soft, cotton t-shirt. Harry could pretend to not notice it’s his, but it’s the middle of the night, so he reaches out and thumbs over the hem, breathes carefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is a light that never goes out

**Author's Note:**

> This is partially inspired by Nick and Harry hanging out today but mostly inspired by LittleMousling tweeting that there should be fic about Nick washing Harry's hair. I saw it and went, "I can do that!" so I did. 
> 
> Thanks to Natasha for looking this over. You're a darling, as always.
> 
> Things belong to me not, also as always.

The drive is long, meandering in a way that makes Harry sleepy, head lolling against the cool glass of the window. Everyone else is asleep by now, back home because they hadn’t decided to sneak around Tesco in the the middle of the night, illuminated by the bright store lights and gathering shampoo and conditioner and fruit.

But he was, so he’s here now, tired and half-asleep when the car rolls to a stop in front of the house. He’s only got one bag with him, the rest sent to his own house, so he shoulders it and slinks down the steps, head resting against the door while he knocks.

He fingers the keys on his phone. He should have called, probably, but the thought even now makes his stomach roll a bit. The thought of Nick’s voice telling him to come at a decent time, or worse _don’t come at all_. There’s a part of him that knows Nick never would send him away, not like that, but Harry’s breath still catches as he knocks again, knuckles light and quiet against the wood. If he tucks his head close, ear pressed against the door, he can hear shuffling inside, the low hum of the telly in the main room still on.

The creaking of footsteps over wood floors. And Harry already knows Nick’s barefoot, clad in only his pyjamas. Real ones, because it’s a Tuesday night and Nick’s got work in a few hours and Harry feels ridiculous standing here, waiting.

There’s the click of the lock, and Harry knows Nick knows it’s him, can hear it in the soft sigh that travels through the door and settles into the quiet of the night. The door slides open and Harry doesn’t move, just looks up and tries to trace the contours of Nick’s face that don’t quite match up to what Harry remembers. He’s thinner maybe, tired. He’s got his track bottoms on and a soft, cotton t-shirt. Harry could pretend to not notice it’s his, but it’s the middle of the night, so he reaches out and thumbs over the hem, breathes carefully.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Nick repeats, flat. His hair’s down, falling a little into his face before he shoves it back and blinks. “It’s--”

“Two in the morning,” Harry cuts in. “I’m aware.”

“Right,” Nick says, tone carefully blank, and Harry wishes he’d do something. Get angry and tell him to fuck off, _something_. “So you showed up anyway. At two in the morning, fuck’s sake.”

Harry drops his hand from where it’s still gripping Nick’s shirt, lets his head fall against the doorframe. “I can leave,” he says carefully. “Only my car’s already gone, and it’s quite cold out here, is the thing.”

Nick opens the door wider, and Harry can see Great British Bake Off playing quietly on the telly, lets his mouth quirk before he remembers himself. Nick rolls his eyes, feet ( _barefoot_ , just like Harry knew) padding over the floor, toes curling into the wood as Harry follows him into the kitchen.

“’S the finale,” Nick says. “So you’re bound to be spoiled and I don’t care.”

“Right,” Harry agrees, and settles into one of the chairs to watch Nick make tea. He tries to anticipate the moves, eyes narrowing when Nick goes for the third cabinet instead of the second. When the sugar is next to the toaster and not the blender. When Nick has to stand up on his toes to get the peppermint bits Harry likes when they used to be in the drawer next to the sink. 

(“Easy access”, Nick had said. “For your desire to be cavity-ridden.”

“Hardly get cavities from a few pieces of peppermint, will I?” Harry asked, just to watch Nick roll his eyes and snatch a few pieces up from the box. “Maybe you will.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Nick had said, but he kept the box in the drawer, for tea after dinner, in the morning, middle of the nights like this.)

“You’ve moved things around,” Harry says slowly, and he watches the muscles in Nick’s back tense, watches his shoulders stiffen. “Nick--”

“Only a few things,” Nick replies, and his head turns a little but not enough, not _enough_. “Decided I needed a bit of change, s’all.”

The mugs clank on the table when Nick sets them down, rattling the wood a little, rattling Harry. He sits in the chair opposite, his long legs pulled up, chin resting on his knees. He looks younger like this, younger than Harry remembers him. Like everything’s just a bit off-center no matter which way Harry turns his head. 

“D’ya want bourbon?” he asks, and Harry makes a face before he realizes, something that punches a reluctant laugh out of Nick. Harry takes it in, how the skin wrinkles next to his eyes, how his mouth pulls up at the edges. “My tea’s not good enough for you anymore, Styles?”

Harry shrugs. He pulls his own feet up, cross legged and awkward, mirroring Nick’s closed up posture. “Just tired, yeah? ’S been like, a year since I’ve slept, I think.”

“So much drama,” Nick murmurs into his mug, and Harry exhales on a laugh, something small and near silent. Nick picks with the round edge of the table, nails scraping against the grain. “D’ya--d’ya need pajamas or something?”

Harry shakes his head and pokes at the Tesco bag he’d plopped on the table. “I can just sleep in my pants, can’t I?” he asks, and watches Nick swallow, watches his breathing even out. “Realized I didn’t have anything to wash my hair with, had to stop.”

Nick smirks a little, washed out in the moonlight and the dim light of the kitchen. “Didn’t want to say,” he starts. “But it looks fucking disgusting, mate.”

Harry laughs a little louder then, the sound croaking in his throat, stretching his mouth out. Nick holds still a little, but his shoulders give a bit, relax when he laughs too, and that matches up with what Harry remembers more than anything else.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “’S a bit out a hand, I suppose. Can I--” He falters, shoulders hunching up, laugh trailing off into the silence. “S’alright if I take a shower, then?”

“Obviously,” Nick drawls. He stands and stretches, and Harry’s eyes catch over the strip of skin, the way his belly peeks out under his ( _Harry’s_ ) shirt. “Can’t have you getting my sofa cushions filthy, can I?”

“Right,” Harry says, and he ignores the sharp look Nick gives him, ignores the way his fingers clench around his mug, the heat burning at his palms. 

“C’mon,” Nick says, and Harry follows him obediently, feet shuffling over the floor, eyes tired and the urge to reach out and grab Nick’s wrist, his waist, _anything_ , is overwhelming when he can hardly think past the buzz in his head.

“Where’s Puppy?” he manages, when Nick flicks on the bathroom light and Harry has to squint to see him.

“Sleepover at Aimee’s,” Nick murmurs. He’s plucking through the cabinets, satisfied noise humming in his throat when he finds what he’s looking for. “S’bit of a famewhore now, to be honest. Dunno what to do with ’im.”

“Like father,” Harry starts, voice flat, just for the look Nick gives him. “What are you doing?

Nick pauses from where he’s bent over the rim of the bath, pouring salts and bubbles into the water. “Running a bath, what the hell’s it look like?”

Harry raises his eyebrows and moves into the bathroom, settles himself on the toilet lid. “I can take a shower.”

“Yes, well.” Nick turns back, adjusting the knobs on the faucets and running his fingers under the water. “Just figured you’d be tired, is all.” He shrugs, carefully staring at the steam rising from the tub and not at Harry, even though Harry hardly knows what his own face looks like. He can only hear his heartbeat thumping over the flow of the water, the blood rushing in his ears. Can only see Nick’s hands shaking a little where he’s got them gripping the tub.

“Nick.” _Fucking look at me_.

“Anyway,” Nick barrels on, “I could--you used to like when I washed your hair,” he says carefully. “When you were tired.”

“Oh,” Harry breathes out, and Nick rolls his eyes, settling them somewhere near Harry’s mouth. “I--yes, I liked that. I like that.”

Nick doesn’t say anything, but he gets up, long limbs seeming more never-ending in his slightly cramped bathroom. He sets out a towel and a flannel on the sink next to Harry. 

“I’ll go get you some pajama bottoms, at least,” he says eventually. “Can’t imagine your pants are much cleaner than your hair, right about now.”

He disappears, and Harry undresses quietly, folding his clothes up and setting them on the lid. The water’s hot, just this side of too much, enough to make his skin pink. Nick hates it like this, and Harry can hear his voice in his head, complaining about skin blisters and sensitive skin. Harry loves it though, and his heart thumps a little that it’s been almost a year and Nick still remembers the right temperature. 

He’s all lowered in, waters and bubbles tickling his chin when Nick comes back holding bottoms and one of his knit jumpers in his arms. “Heating’s fucked,” he says. “Thought you might need something else.”

“Thanks,” Harry says quietly, and Nick clears his throat before he shuffles next to the tub, lowering himself to the floor. “For the water too,” Harry adds.

“’S too fucking hot,” Nick mumbles, and Harry gives him a lazy smile, one that tugs at something in Harry’s chest, makes his skin flush. “D’ya wanna soak a bit before I--” He makes a little gesture with his hands that’s so---so utterly fucking _Nick_ \--it makes Harry’s eyes burn.

He’s too exhausted for this.

“No,” he croaks out. “You can wash it now. Please, I mean.”

“Very polite,” Nick murmurs. “Dunk your head then.”

Harry does. The hot water feels good against his scalp, makes his head feel lighter now that he’s getting all the product out. He sits up and closes his eyes, listens for Nick squeezing shampoo into his palms and waits. The shampoo is cold, and Harry shivers a little at it, Nick’s fingers dragging along his scalp and leaving goosebumps. It reminds Harry of different nights, wine sat on the rim on the tub, Nick going on about something in the studio while he ran fingers through Harry’s hair. It reminds him of summers passed, when it was too hot for a bath, but they were both too lazy and buzzed from the wine to keep upright in the shower.

It reminds Harry of Nick’s mouth on his neck, sucking bruises into the skin and complaining that Harry tasted like soap. Of Nick slipping his hand under the water and wrapping long, gentle fingers around Harry’s dick, twisting his wrist until Harry was bucking up, water sloshing over the side of the tub.

“Careful,” Nick says, and it’s jolting, because that’s what he’d say then too, when Harry couldn’t control his hips or the urge to fuck up into Nick’s hand. Couldn’t help the moans vibrating in his throat or how it felt like he couldn’t _breathe_ , Nick laughing softly in his ear and running a thumb over the head of Harry’s dick, teasing. “You’ll get water all over the floor.”

“Sorry,” Harry chokes out, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pushes the memory out of his head and tries not to shiver under Nick’s touch. “Just--tired.”

Nick only hums, fingers pushing shampoo through Harry’s strands, the movement soft and soothing enough that Harry finally takes in enough air and relaxes. Breathes. “Tell me about it, popstar,” he says finally, voice quiet and hollow, echoing a little off the tiles.

“What?” Harry asks. He keeps his eyes closed, doesn’t dare look at Nick’s expression. 

He can still imagine Nick’s shrug though, the way he swallows before he talks. “Don’t have any good stories for me?”

Harry shrugs in turn. There are so many things he catalogued in his head, a million and one things captioned with _Nick would love this_ like a brand in his memories. It all seems silly now, with Nick right here and so close. Harry doesn’t want stories right now. Doesn’t want to talk about all the time in between.

“Missed you,” is what he says. “A lot.”

Nick stills, fingers tangled in Harry’s hair. He carefully extracts them, and Harry can still feel the heat, the gentle push. “Dunk your head,” Nick says, so Harry does.

He opens his eyes to Nick getting to his feet, and Harry blinks water out of eyes. “Nick--”

“I’ll pause Bake Off,” Nick says, fingers curling around the edge of the doorframe. “So you can catch up.”

“ _Nick_ \--” But he’s gone, and Harry can hear him shuffling around, the telly pausing and then Nick clanking glasses in the kitchen. Harry gets up, mindful that he’s dripping all over the floors but not caring. He grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist as he walks out of the bathroom, the cool air sending goosebumps and making him shiver.

Nick jumps when Harry steps into the kitchen, his mug slamming down against the counter. “Jesus, there’s water everywhere.”

“I don’t care,” Harry tells him.

“That’s obvious,” Nick snaps. “There is actually a _puddle_ at your feet.”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Harry says again, louder this time, enough that Nick’s jaw snaps shut with an audible click. “I don’t fucking care about the water, Nick. I don’t think you do either.”

Nick crosses his arms, leans back against the counter and stares. “What else do you think, Harry? Do you _think_ you should have shown up here in the middle of the night. Did you _think_ I’d--what? What did you think?”

Harry bites back a remark. He doesn’t want to fight, but Nick makes him so angry. Makes him tired. Makes him want, and that’s all Harry can focus on right now. The want overflowing in his chest, ballooning up in his lungs, whiting out everything else in his head. “I thought,” he forces out, and it feels too loud in the room, feels too much at once. “I thought--you’d missed me too. Just a little.”

Nick sags, deflates enough that his shoulders curl in and his back hunches. “I did,” he says quietly. “Of course I did, you absolute _idiot_.”

Harry steps closer. It’s fucking cold, and he can feel wet strands sticking to his neck and his forehead, curling around his ears. He steps close enough that he can see the rise and fall of Nick’s chest, the way his arms drop and his fingers curl around the sharp edge of the counter. Close enough that even in the dim light he can see how pink Nick’s mouth is, and he remembers it’s been _months_ since they’ve kissed.

“Kiss me,” he says quietly. “I just--we don’t have to. Kiss me.”

Nick stares at him for a second, and Harry realizes he doesn’t know what Nick will say, doesn’t _know_ Nick like he used to, all the inner workings of him. But then Nick leans in, and Harry knows this, the softness of Nick’s mouth, how he tastes like wine and tea and peppermint and heat. How his fingers curl around Harry’s waist, gripping the towel that hangs loose. How he’s steady and warm and still Nick, underneath all the uncertainty. Still the same Nick.

They pull back, and Nick sighs, a reluctant and small grin playing at his lips. “Well,” he says.

“Well?”

Nick blinks, and his eyes flicker down to the towel that’s barely hanging on, the water dripping down Harry’s legs and off the ends of his hair. “I think I am very cross about the water, actually.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, a bit hysterical around the edges, muffled into Nick’s neck. “I’ll clean it up.”

“You will,” Nick agrees.

They pull away, Harry going back to the bathroom to dry off and get dressed and Nick to set up the couch. The blankets and pillows all smell like him, his soap and cologne and the faintest hint of smoke, hidden under everything. Their legs overlap on the sofa, Harry’s hair drying haphazardly and Nick looking over every few seconds to roll his eyes at it.

“We can watch some earlier episodes,” Nick says, gesturing towards the telly. “Can’t imagine you had time to watch while you were out being a popstar.”

Harry shrugs, eyes half-closed. He pulls the sleeves of Nick’s jumper down over his knuckles and sinks down into the cushions. “Nah,” he mumbles, through a yawn. “We can pick up right here, yeah?”’

Nick stares at him for a moment, the lights from the television playing over his face. “Yeah,” he says eventually. “Yeah, maybe we can.”

Harry falls asleep within minutes.

\-----

He wakes up with creases in his face from the cushions and a crick in his neck. He rolls over and lets his body slide off the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. He’s disorientated, and his hair’s falling into his face, dried wrong and uncontrollable. 

Harry pushes himself to his feet, staggering into the kitchen to squint at the clock. It’s nearly ten, and Nick’ll be done at the studio soon, so Harry opens the kitchen blinds and starts the stove. There’s a note stuck to the microwave, written in chicken-scratch, but Harry’s got practice.

 _Peppermint’s in the drawer by the sink_ , it says. _For easy access._

\-----


End file.
